


a time to build up

by shadowen



Series: there is a season [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Deaf Clint Barton, Fluff and Angst, Food, Found Family, Holidays, M/M, Poverty, Prompt Fic, Thanksgiving, characters with disabilities, this got out of hand
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-03-04 14:19:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3071303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowen/pseuds/shadowen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the middle of the night, and Clint is starving.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a time to build up

**Author's Note:**

  * For [marleygoat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/marleygoat/gifts).



> It was supposed to be a nice little AU prompt fic. It turned into a monster. I apologize for nothing.
> 
> The series is currently unfinished, but it's on my To Do list. All twelve parts of it. D:

It’s the middle of the night, and Clint is _starving_. Not late-night-munchies starving, but haven’t-eaten-since-did-those-peanuts-count-as-lunch starving. He’s got three frozen pizza rolls left, but if he eats them now, he’ll have to figure out something else to last him through the holiday. There’s always some kind of charity spread in the commons on Thanksgiving day, but Clint knows from experience that he can only squirrel away so much in his pockets before someone catches him.

Officially, he lives in the International Dorm, the only undergrad housing that stays open, on the theory that students from Bulgaria, or wherever, probably can’t head home for every holiday. In Clint’s experience, a lot of those students tend to make friends with Americans whose families are only too happy to host them for culturally-endorsed gluttony-fests, so most of the remaining residents are the Americans who don’t have homes to go to. 

The good news is that it’s quiet, which Clint and his busted-ass hearing greatly appreciate. The bad news is that Clint’s roommate, Miles, who always has food to share and whose family lives in the city - _"I dunno, man. They saw ‘Morales’ and thought I was from Mexico?"_ \- won’t be back until Sunday, leaving Clint with four days of scrounging.

"Fuck it," he says aloud, snagging the pizza rolls out of the tiny slot freezer. He grabs his hearing aids, too, because people have been known to sneak up on him and think it’s fucking hilarious when he jumps and burns himself. There may only be five other people in the building, but guaranteed that the one Clint runs into at fuck-o’clock-AM will be whoever is the biggest dick.

 _And not in the fun way_ , Clint thinks, snickering to himself. Oh god, he really needs to get laid. Or sleep. Also food. Sex, sleep, and food - the staples of human existence, and Clint is short on all of them. Fuck.

As he gets closer to the communal kitchen, Clint can smell something warm and delicious, and the Force really is not with him tonight because not only is the kitchen in use, it’s being used by the guy from the first floor who hates him. The small counter is cluttered with mixing bowls, an assortment of baked goods in various stages, and the guy’s prosthetic arm. The “out of order” sign on the microwave is brown and stiff with age. Clint’s not sure the microwave even has a cord anymore.

"Hey," he says, and it comes out a little more aggressively than he meant it to. 

"If you need the oven, come back later." The jerk doesn’t even look up, which irritates Clint more than usual. He doesn’t even know this asshole’s name, just that his roommate, who is half his size and twice as terrifying, calls him Bucky.

Normally, Clint would just call him an asshole and leave, but he’s tired and hungry and this fuckwad is cooking a goddamn feast that smells amazing, and Clint has had it up to fucking _here_ with being reminded of all the things he can’t have.

"Just fucking pizza rolls," he snaps. shouldering past the guy to get a piece of tinfoil. He’s not about to start a fight trying to get a whole baking sheet.

"No way. They’ll make the cookies taste like freezer. Just wait your turn," Bucky grumbles. At least, Clint’s ninety percent sure that’s what he grumbles, since the asshole still doesn’t look at him.

Clint reminds himself that the pizza rolls are his only food in time to keep from throwing them in Bucky’s face. “You can’t lemme have five minutes so they’re not frozen in the middle?”

"You can’t wait your goddamn turn?" The refusal to make eye contact is now officially insulting. "Fuck. Like you’re gonna starve in the time it takes to bake cookies."

He keeps talking about cookies, and the smell in the room really is overwhelming. It’s no wonder that, right on cue, Clint’s stomach gives a loud, obnoxious growl. Bucky does look at him then, and now it’s Clint’s turn to glance away in embarrassment, still holding the pizza rolls and tin foil as he folds one arm over his stomach to try and muffle the noise.

After a moment of silence in which Clint wonders if dying of shame is an excuse to miss class, Bucky says gruffly, “Fine.” He pops open the oven and slides in Clint’s handful of food before Clint even knows what’s happening.

"Gonna take more than five minutes, though," Bucky tells him, back to looking anywhere in the room but Clint’s face. "Gotta cook those things all the way through to kill the…" 

The word he says is _salmonella_ ; Clint knows that, but it’s such a non-sequitur and gets so garbled by Bucky’s grumbling that it takes him a second to suss it out. “If you’re gonna talk to me, you gotta fucking look at me,” he says sharply. 

Bucky scowls, but he at least scowls _at_ Clint. “Didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, princess.”

Clint sighs. He’s way too exhausted and hungry for this. “It’s so I can understand you, asshole,” he says, tugging at one of his hearing aids so Bucky can see.

The scowl folds in on itself. “Oh. Gotcha.” A second later and with no preamble, Bucky asks, “You want a muffin, or something?”

Clint rolls his eyes, because now even the one-armed guy baking at three in the morning who hates him thinks he’s a charity case. He doesn’t reach for a muffin, no matter how much he wants to. “What’s all this shit for?”

If Clint hadn’t actually seen Bucky turn pink, he never would’ve believed it. “My roommate. He can’t eat most of the stuff in the commons, and we can’t afford to go out, so we’ve got kind of a tradition.” He shrugs, like preparing a feast in the middle of the night is nothing. “I usually get done the day before, but time sorta got away from me this year.”

"That’s a lot of food for two people," Clint remarks and immediately kicks himself. It sounds like he’s hinting, and he’s really not. It’s just… It’s an awful lot of food.

"You’d be surprised. Steve eats a lot for a skinny guy." Bucky pauses, and Clint squirms under his weirdly searching stare. Maybe it was better when he wasn’t looking. "Are you allergic to bananas?"

"What?" Clint’s starting to wonder if he’s hallucinating this whole conversation.

"All this stuff is gluten free, nut free, dairy free, sugar free. Pretty much free from anything you could ever want to be free from."

"Except bananas, because bananas can be used as a substitute binding agent," Clint reasons, and Bucky blinks at him, surprised.

"I… Yeah. How did you know that?"

Clint once spent a week researching ways to eat as cheaply as possible without making himself sick. “Chemistry minor,” he says, which is also true.

Bucky looks impressed, which is miles better than the irritation disdain Clint usually sees on him. “Yeah. Anyway. If you’re not allergic, you should try a muffin. They’re really good.”

"If you do say so yourself?" Clint teases, reaching for a muffin. Bucky just grins, waiting as Clint takes a bite, and okay yeah, he’s got something to smirk about. "Oh my god. That’s the best thing I’ve ever put in my mouth."

Bucky’s grin widens into a leer. “Oh yeah? What’s the second best thing?”

"My freshman roommate’s cock."

Bucky snorts. “Glad you like my muffins better.”

"Might like your cock even more," Clint says. Bucky’s eyebrows go up, and it’s about two terrible seconds before Clint’s brain catches up to his mouth. "Oh my god. Man, I’m so sorry. That was way outta line."

"It was kinda weird, yeah," Bucky admits. "Though I gotta say, you had a pretty good opening."

There really must be something wrong with Clint, because he answers with, “That’s what he said.”

Bucky lets out a big laugh, amplified in the tiny kitchen space, and Clint doesn’t notice that the oven timer has gone off until Bucky turns to open it, letting a burst of scent into the room. Clint stands up from the wall where he’s been leaning, unexpectedly shaky, as Bucky pulls out two baking sheets full of the most perfect cookies Clint’s ever seen. He’s about to reach for the pizza rolls and shuffle away with his pitiful snack, but Bucky closes the oven and resets the timer.

At Clint’s confused look, he says, “Told you they need to cook longer. Don’t wanna get food poisoning.”

"Oh. Right. Sure." Clint crosses his arms, suddenly uncomfortable. "What’s with the suddenly being nice to me?"

Bucky frowns. “By giving you a muffin? I dunno. I figure anybody in a dorm making pizza rolls the night before Thanksgiving could probably use a muffin.”

"Even somebody you can’t stand?" Clint asks before he can think better of it. Some of his earlier anger resurfaces with the reminder that kindness is not an overture to friendship and charity extends only as far as the hand offering it.

"This is the longest conversation we’ve ever had. Why would you think I couldn’t stand you?" Bucky replies. "I mean, I thought you were kind of a dick."

"I am kind of a dick," Clint points out. "Look, I don’t care if you like me. I just don’t want you to feel sorry for me, or some shit."

Bucky’s face darkens. He looks like he’s about to say something snide, but he stops. Instead, he drawls, “‘Cause I couldn’t possibly be motivated by empathy.”

It’s on the tip of Clint’s tongue to ask what the hell that means, but then it clicks in his foggy brain. They’re a couple of poor-as-fuck insomniacs with pain-in-the-ass disabilities and no home to speak of, standing in a shitty kitchen in the middle of the night because what the hell else are they gonna do. It’s been a long time since anyone had anything in common with Clint, much less felt any kinship with him, and he’s not really sure what to do with that. “Oh.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Look, do you wanna do Thanksgiving with us tomorrow? We’ve got some friends with a place off-campus. It’ll mostly just be stuffing our faces and watching Nat and Steve play Mario Kart.”

Clint can’t help but repeat, “ _Watching_ them play?”

"Never underestimate the entertainment value of two tiny people getting very angry," Bucky replies. "So how ‘bout it? I mean, If you’re not busy."

It doesn’t sound sarcastic. It sounds like Bucky honestly thinks Clint might have other plans, or like he’s at least giving Clint an out. Clint’s instinct is to say thanks but no thanks, that he doesn’t want to impose, but eating a real meal at a real table would be a hell of a lot better than stealing food from the commons.

"You sure your friends won’t mind?" he asks, and Bucky shakes his head.

"Steve’ll be thrilled, and the only thing Sam likes more than new people is feeding new people." He shrugs. "Nat might be a little scary at first, but tell her how nice the apartment is, and she’ll warm up."

It worries Clint a little that Bucky has friends even _he_ thinks are scary, but that seems like a fair price for a little bit of decent company. “Sure. Okay. Thanks.”

Bucky beams. “Good! Thought for a second I might have to pout.” He nods to a covered bowl at the end of the counter. “Since you’re gonna be mooching, you wanna gimme a hand with that dough?”

Clint picks up the bowl and only hesitates for a second before picking up Bucky’s prosthetic arm, too. He holds them both out, and Bucky stares at him blankly. Clint thinks he might have made a terrible mistake, until Bucky suddenly doubles over laughing.

When the oven timer beeps again, they share the pizza rolls, splitting the third one down the middle.

***

Bucky tells him to meet them in the lobby around noon, so Clint lurks near the entryway like a creeper until Bucky and Steve come around the corner carrying a variety of plastic containers. Bucky has his prosthetic bent with a big shopping bag hanging from it like he's part mannequin. They're teasing each other about something, and Clint gives it a count of twenty before he opens the stairwell door and lets it fall closed as he walks up to them. They stop talking abruptly, both grinning, and Clint tries to convince himself that they weren't laughing at him.

"Hey!" Bucky greets him cheerfully. "I almost thought you were gonna chicken out."

"Never back down from a challenge," Clint says, and Steve laughs.

"Careful. The last time somebody said that, we wound up in a pie-eating contest."

"Who won?" Clint asks.

In unison, they answer, "Natasha."

"I'm gonna give you some advice that may save your life," Steve tells him. "Never challenge Nat to anything, no matter how good you are, because she will make it personal, and she will destroy you."

Clint is getting more and more terrified to meet this Natasha person.

"Speak of the devil," Bucky says, pushing open the front doors as a dented red sedan pulls up in front. 

There's a good-looking guy in the passenger seat waving to them. "Gentlemen! Your chariot for the feast!"

"To gluttony and genocide!" Steve cries, sliding into the backseat.

Circling to the other side, Bucky shouts, loud in sparse parking lot, "To the imperialist legacy of racist violence!"

"To whitewashing and ignorance!" the guy in the front calls out, and Clint figures he must be Sam.

As Clint climbs in next to Steve, the red-headed woman in the driver's seat joins in with, "To the romanticism of a bloody past!"

In conclusion to the ritual, the all yell together, "Happy Thanksgiving!"

As the car speeds out onto campus, the guy in the front turns around and holds out a hand to Clint. "Hi! Sam Wilson. This is Natasha Romanoff. Sorry my friends are barbarians and didn't make introductions _or_ warn you that was gonna happen."

Clint smiles and decides he might like Sam already. "Clint Barton," he says, and Sam's eyes widen.

"Clint?" Turning to Steve and Bucky, Sam asks, "This is him? This is the dick?"

Clint doesn't let himself flinch. He knew Bucky had never liked him, but he didn't figure that extended to his friends.

"Oh my god," Steve groans, putting a hand over his eyes.

Sam looks between the three of them, and Clint can see Natasha watching him in the rearview mirror. "So do we like him now?"

Bucky shrugs, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Yeah, he's cool."

Clint is confused, insulted, and embarrassed all at once, and he slumps down in his seat. Steve glances at him and warns the others, "Guys, knock it off. You're being jerks."

"I'd like to know how he went from the top of the shit list to part of the family in two days," Natasha chimes in coolly, and Clint has to lean in to hear her. "With the James Barnes seal of approval, no less."

"I'd like to know why I was on the shit list in the first place," Clint grumbles. He doesn't really mean to say it, but he's had a lifetime of people talking about him like he's not there.

There's a moment of uncomfortable silence, then a grin breaks on Sam's face, and he turns to Clint. "Last year. Spring semester. Modern American lit."

"Come on. We're not telling this story," Steve protests, but Sam presses on.

"All semester, our dear Steven will not shut up about this gorgeous guy who sits next to him. This gorgeous, _smart_ guy who's quiet but so insightful. This gorgeous, smart, focused guy with the most intense eyes who's always taking notes and double-checking an-"

"Okay!" Steve cuts him off, and Clint couldn't be more grateful, because he's suddenly figured out where this is going.

"Okay, so Steve gets sick, and he has to miss a bunch of class," Sam continues, and Clint's starting to feel a little sick, himself. "Here he is, coughing up a lung, and he keeps saying that he's gonna ask the hot guy in English for his notes, like this is the best thing ever. Finally, he stops wheezing long enough that he can hobble back to class, and he's psyching himself up to actually talk to this guy that he's been fawning over. He sits down, the guy's already there, already got his books open, and Steve asks, real casual like, if he can borrow the notes from the days he missed. And this gorgeous, smart, focused guy just stares at him and says..."

" _Fuck off_ ," Clint finishes. He wonders if he can survive jumping out of the car at this speed. He's not sure he cares. He can't make himself look at Steve as he mumbles, "Wow. I really am a dick."

"Kinda," Bucky agrees, and Steve elbows him. "What? He was totally a dick."

"So are you, and we still keep you around," Sam says. Bucky glares at him, but Sam just grins back.

"Anyway. Now that everybody knows the story, we don't ever need to talk about it _ever again_. Right?" Steve looks around at all of them, daring someone to challenge him. For his part, Clint is completely fine with forgetting it ever happened. Steve nods, apparently satisfied. "Alright then."

Natasha says something, and it takes Clint a moment to realize that she's talking to him. "Sorry, what?"

"I asked if you were allergic to dogs," she repeats, as if he should have anticipated that conversational segue.

"Um. I don't think so." Clint hasn't spent much time around dogs, but he likes animals in general.

"Good." She doesn't elaborate, and Clint catches the end of an eye-roll as Sam turns to face him.

"We have a dog," Sam explains. "Mean little fucker, but she'll leave you alone if you don't bother her. She'll probably bark like a maniac then run and hide until everybody leaves."

"I'll try not to step on her tail," Clint says and really hopes that he doesn't.

Sam and Natasha live just off campus in one of the ancient cinder-block apartment buildings favored by grad students and undergrads trying to eke by on student loans and part-time jobs. By contrast, the inside of their two-bedroom apartment is gorgeous. Everything is covered in bright colors and soft fabrics, with knick-knacks and framed photos scattered on shelves that house a truly impressive collection of books. The art on the walls is eclectic, but it all seems united by some theme that Clint, who knows absolutely nothing about art, can't quite put his finger on.

He's about to tell them how great it is when the ugliest, angriest animal he's ever seen in his life comes skittering toward him across the rug, barking like the building is on fire. The dog stops a few feet away and continues the godawful yapping at a volume that makes Clint’s hearing aids buzz, its pock-marked face all twisted up with a rage known only to small dogs. One of its front paws is missing, and it keeps jabbing at Clint with the stump like all it wants in the world is to scratch him.

"Meet Bucky Junior," Bucky drawls, and Clint can't help the snort of laughter that escapes. Bucky grins, holding out his prosthetic. "Can't you see the resemblance?"

"Her name is _not_ Bucky Junior!" Sam calls from the kitchen. "Her name is Redwing!"

The dog's ratty brown fur is a kind of rust color around her ears, so Clint can see where the name might come from. He crouches down slowly, holding out one hand, just to let her know that he's friendly and not trying to invade her territory.

"Careful. The only person she likes is Natasha," Steve warns. He's setting out napkins and silverware on a wooden table that looks like it's survived a lifetime of garage sales.

Clint keeps his hand far enough back that he can snatch it away if Redwing decides to snap, but she just pauses in her barking to sniff at him curiously, barks again, then gives him another sniff. Finally, huffs and sits down, wagging her stubby tail and staring at Clint like she expects to be rewarded for not trying to kill him.

"Huh," Natasha says suddenly from behind him, and Clint jumps. "Guess she likes you."

"Told you he was cool," Bucky says. He gives Clint a wink, and Clint just smiles, unsure of what to do with the warm feeling in his stomach.

If he'd been nervous about infringing on their food, he soon realizes there's no reason to worry. Between Bucky's midnight baking and Sam's apparent week of cooking, there's enough to feed a small army, and Sam keeps asking Clint if he wants more every time a clean spot appears on his plate. Clint catches himself sneaking a roll into his pocket and puts it back. Stealing from the cafeteria is one thing; he's not going to steal from someone's home.

He volunteers to do dishes, and all four of them look at him like something has suddenly sprouted from his head. "Nuh uh," Sam tells him. "Me and Bucky cook, Steve and Nat clean. That's how we do."

"But I didn't do anything," Clint points out. He's never eaten this well in his life, and he figures if he pitches in, maybe they'll let him come back next year.

"You made friends with Bucky," Natasha says, and Bucky sticks out his tongue at her. "And Bucky Junior."

Sam groans. "Her name is not Bucky Junior!"

Whatever her name is, the dog has spent most of the meal sitting next to Clint's chair, intermittently whining and poking at his leg with her stump. "I think she just wants me to feed her," he says. He hasn't yet, but he really wants to slip her a slice of ham, or something.

"She knows a softy when she sees one," Natasha says, smiling.

"Or a sucker," Sam grumbles.

"Hey!" Clint's not offended, but he thinks he's supposed to act like it. 

"And you guys wonder why we never meet new people," Steve teases. "Calling them dicks and suckers."

Bucky sits up straight. "Did someone say dick sucker?"

"Well, that part's true," Clint admits, and Bucky leans over to punch Steve in the shoulder.

"I told you!" To Clint, Bucky says, "I told him you totally came on to me last night, and he said I was hallucinating."

Clint feels the heat blossom on his face. "Definitely a hallucination. Never happened. Never to be spoken of again."

"I dunno. I was hoping to hear more about putting good things in your mouth," Bucky replies. He's leaning on his elbow, looking straight through Clint with intense, dark eyes, and Clint doesn't know if he's teasing or flirting. Clint decides that teasing is most likely.

"You're gonna need better muffins for that," Clint says, and Steve chokes on a mouthful of wine, laughing.

Bucky sits back from the table, smirking. "Alright, alright. I can up my game. Just gimme some time to come up with a strategy."

The conversation moves on, shifting between subjects that Clint knows and ones that he doesn't. When no one can eat anymore, Sam and Bucky pull him to the plush sofa and convince him to play Wii Bowling until Steve and Natasha come claim the game system for their regular Mario Kart face-off, which is exactly as entertaining as Bucky promised.

By the time Sam drops them off at the dorm, Clint feels so full and content that he almost forgets to be disappointed that it's over. He surprised when Bucky reaches out with a different shopping bag hung from the end of his prosthetic. "What's this?"

"Leftovers," Bucky explains. "Dunno how much'll fit in your fridge, but some of it should be okay if you have to leave it out."

Clint's never been given leftovers. He's never eaten a meal that _had_ leftovers. "I... Yeah. Thanks. And, y'know, thanks for inviting me."

Bucky grins and tosses off a salute as he follows Steve down the hall. "See you around, dick."

That night, Clint goes to sleep with a full stomach and a smile for the first time in his life, and he dreams about chocolate and snow.


End file.
